


Killing My Way

by BurningTea



Series: Prompts [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Caring Dean, Dean gets violent, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 14:01:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5931018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurningTea/pseuds/BurningTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Sam find Castiel needs saving, and Dean does what he has to. </p><p>ExpatGirl wanted Dean going beserker to save Cas - so here it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Killing My Way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ExpatGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExpatGirl/gifts).



It was Sunday morning when Sam caught the case, sending them hightailing it to Iowa. It was the next afternoon when they worked out some truly twisted spell was using a living creature as a power-source for a nest of vamps’ uber-powers.

It was early evening when they found ground zero.

Reddening light washed the area as they left the Impala and scouted the place. The warehouse was in better condition than a lot of the ones they ended up in, with unbroken windows and doors that didn’t bust open right away. Dean kept a look-out as Sam picked the lock, his grip firm and steady around the hilt of his blade. 

“Anytime you’re ready, Sam,” he said, because the tension in the air was getting to him. 

A low buzzing sat under everything and Dean felt it hook into his bones. They ached. 

“You want to take over?” Sam asked, but he stayed fixed on the lock, and there was no real heat in his words. 

The click of the lock saved Dean from replying, and he followed Sam into the dim interior of the building, stepping carefully. These vamps were amped up. It had needed the two of them to take down one of the bastards a couple of hours back, in broad daylight. That shit wasn’t right. 

Neither was the pricking along his forearms, down his shins, up his jaw. Tiny, metal hooks. Fish-hooks, maybe. They grated. 

“You all right?” Sam asked.

Dean frowned, looking round to see his brother staring back at him, concern clear on his face. 

“Sure,” he said, shaking himself out of it. He was just on edge. Too much had been going on lately. No way a case like this, even one with vamps who’d got some spell to mimic them eating their spinach, should be throwing him so much. “Get on with it. I want out of here.”

Sam narrowed his eyes, but after a moment he turned and prowled down the corridor. Dean followed him into air which set minuscule claws in his marrow. He followed him as the underlying buzz became a hum they could hear, picking up his pace when he heard the sound of laughter, and behind it the sound of a pained cry. 

He hit the next door at a run. 

“Dean!” Sam called behind him, the word muffled into a hiss.

Dean barely heard it. 

The first vamp turned in far too elegant a motion, spinning smoothly to face Dean with raised eyebrows. Her jacket was crimson in the light from the windows.

“Guests?” she said, and smiled. 

Her hair was in plaits. Dean would remember that later, once he’d torn them out at the root. Right then, he readied himself for an attack.

“Hope you cleaned up the place,” he said, and he knew the grin on his face was sickly. “Not that it looks like you did a very good job.”

The marks on the floor were all too clearly from the spell, looping whorls and sigils in at least seven colours. They danced across the floor, past a cluster of other vamps, and stopped somewhere behind a pillar. Another cry rang out, and Dean jerked. Whatever they’d plugged into their spell, it was suffering. 

“This is clean,” she said, smiling as though she’d found the key to the moon itself. “No hiding out in dark bars, not when we can ignore the sun. And no stalking people. Not unless we want to. Not when the spell draws them to us.”

She flicked her eyes up and down Dean’s body, taking a second, slower look a moment later. Her lips curved even further.

“And what delicious looking snacks you are. I might even let the angel watch.”

“You can-”

Dean stopped. Angel? 

He heard Sam behind him, heard the shifting of weight. 

“What angel?” Sam asked, drawing the question out like he didn’t really want to ask it. 

“What does it matter?” she asked. “They used to be so powerful, so terrifying. Who’d have thought they’d be so…so useful? Burned through the last one far too quickly. But this one? It’s not giving up. It’ll last for months, I bet.”

And she bit her lip, like she was picturing how great it would be. The plaits were blonde. Dean wasn’t sure if that was important or not.

“Tell me what angel,” he said. 

Those hooks drew splinters out, cutting into his skin. It felt that if he looked down, he’d see red along his arms. But it wasn’t real. He knew that. It must just be some reaction to the spell, something setting him too close to fight or flight mode. It hurt, but he knew how to ignore that. He had more important things to consider. Such as the fact he hadn’t heard from Cas in over two weeks.

“You tell me who you have in that trap.”

Because with the vamp regarding him in silence, with the others standing unmoving, apparently waiting for Dean to make a move, he could hear the crackle of flames. Holy fire. Had to be. And Dean had seen it used on more angels that anyone should ever see, had used it himself, and it was always the same one that sprang to mind when he thought of them. The same trap he tried to forget. And they hadn’t really fixed it in all the time since, not well enough.

“Dean.” Sam’s voice was distant. “I-”

The clatter brought Dean round just in time to see two vamps bear Sam to the ground, and he snarled, swinging his blade as the back of his neck prickled. He was too late.

Hands grabbed him, gripped him, dragged him growling to the ground. Hard concrete sent more pain juddering through his knees, but he barely had time to register it before a fist met his face. Again. And again. And again. He tasted blood long before they stopped. 

*************************

He was conscious when they dragged him closer to the hum, around the pillar and into the middle of a crowd of vamps. One of them held a glass of what looked like whiskey, like this was some club. Like it was a fucking party. 

His vision was blurry, but he didn’t think the beating was to blame. It felt like metal tips were snagging at the surface of his eyes. 

The spell-work spiraled in to a center, here, converging around a ring of fire. In the middle of that circle a vamp’s back blocked the figure powering the spell. Whoever it was, Dean made out a pole, stretching from floor to ceiling, and the angel must be tied to it, because the vamp hauled back a bat, swung it, hit the angel with a damp thwack, and Dean didn’t see the attacker burst into hot, white light. He didn’t hear a cry, either. This time, all he heard was a grunt of pain.

This close, he was almost sure. Almost. 

“Sam,” he managed, but he got no answer. He couldn’t move his head enough to check, but from the way Sam sounded as they moved him, the heavy drag of his body, it was clear Sam was out cold. 

The vamp in the ring stepped back, turning with a smirk on his pasty-white face, and Dean got a clear line of sight. 

Cas.

That was Cas, his arms tied behind him, his hair matted in what had to be his own blood. His shirt hung in shreds, the sigils cut right into his skin standing out vividly, even with bruises mottling him. His head hung, but Dean caught the glimpse of blue. Cas was awake.

“Cas!” he called, pushing the word past the stabbing, needling hooks. “Cas, hang on. I’m getting you out.”

He got no reaction. 

Fuck. Cas was so far gone he hadn’t even groaned at that last hit. 

“Why are you bashing him?” Dean asked, throwing his question at the one with the bat. “What good does that do?”

If he could distract him, buy Cas even a few minutes, it was worth trying.

The vamp tilted its head in a way that should be banned. No-one should be able to do that except Cas. 

“Fun?” he said, as though the answer was so obvious that Dean’s intelligence was being called into question. “Gotta pass the time somehow.”

“You sick-” Dean started. A boot cut him off.

“Play nice,” the first vamp said. She squatted next to him, her face almost clear as she bent closer than most vamps would dare with Dean, even with Dean bashed about and dizzy. Her eyes met his. “You know the angel? Small world. Wait.” Her eyes grew round. “Are you Dean?”

He must have flinched or something, because she threw her head back and laughed.

“You are! Oh, fuck, but that’s too good to be true. You got any idea why an angel calls out to you when he’s caught? What makes you so special? God, you know how long it took for him to stop? I thought about taking his tongue, I really did.”

She pursed her lips, shook her head, and rose to her feet. The larger vamp dropped back as she drew closer, taking his place near Cas and reaching out a hand. As her fingers sank into Cas’ hair, Dean gritted his teeth. She pulled Cas’ head back, exposing the long line of his throat, and ran her other hand along it. Cas’ eyes were barely open, but Dean saw the moment the angel saw him.

“De-”

Cas couldn’t even get his full name out, but the anguish in that syllable was too much. Far too much. Cas was being sucked dry by creatures he should have been able to roast with a thought, and he was hurt at seeing Dean caught. 

The hooks yanked at him, and Dean gave in. 

With a grimace, he gathered himself and rolled. This spell was making the vamps drop their guard, because they’d taken their eyes off him. Dean was bruised, bloody, but he was nothing like in the state Cas was, and now he’d stopped fighting it that pull brought him right to his feet. 

It brought him right to his feet and face to face with the vamp who’d been whaling on Cas. It brought him within inches of the bat. 

“Share your toys,” Dean said, and dropped every pretense at a wall between himself and the Mark, the Demon, the Darkness. Hell, he’d been a vamp, or as good as. He pulled up every memory of Purgatory, of slicing his way through a forest stretching further than forever. He summoned his knowledge from Hell. 

The vamp fell without his throat, flesh sliding through Dean’s fingers.

The bat caved in the side of the next one’s face. 

“Castiel!” Dean yelled. “You stay alive, you son of a bitch! I’m coming for you.”

Blood coated the wood, dripping as Dean held it still, ready for the next one. He didn’t have long to wait. At the first vamp’s cry, from where she stood holding Cas’ head up, her hands still on him, two others sprang at Dean. He swung the bat so hard it broke, the shattered end glancing away to the floor. With his lips pulled back, Dean span the bat and jabbed it through an eye. 

After that, he lost track. The hooks in his bones still stabbed deep, pulling him on and yanking him back, and he ignored it. Cas was what mattered. He had to get to Cas.

He picked up a knife somewhere in the fight, slashing it across a throat and taking hold of that vamp’s hair as it fell to its knees. He ripped the head the rest of the way off with a sound like gristle being torn off a carcass. Not really figurative, he supposed. 

And he was left facing the woman. 

“Get your hands off him,” he said, pointing the bloodied blade at her. “Get your hands off the angel.”

“The angel?” she asked. She didn’t look anything like as scared as she should have. “You mean your angel, right? Or…my angel?”

She pursed her lips again and Dean decided he’d cut them off. 

“Thing is, Dean, you can’t get in here. This circle? It’s warded both ways. And you’re out there. And I’m in here. With my angel. So…I get you want him back. He’s cute. Can’t blame you. And he’s still got enough juice in him to be useful. But…I think I’ll keep him.”

She stared at him, her eyes wide with fake innocence. They were still wide when the knife hit the right socket. 

Disbelief crossed her face before pain did, and Dean was ready when the force of the blow knocked her backwards. He was ready as she stumbled enough that a plait swung out of the circle, and he dragged her the rest of the way with his teeth bared. 

“My angel,” he breathed, and got a grip, and pulled.

She screamed as the hair tore loose, and again when he got a good grip on the knife and drew it out, the resistance enough to satisfy some part of him he’d kept down all these years, kept down and chained in the dark. 

The whimpers drove him on, stabbing at her neck as she tried to fend him off, stabbing again and again as he hacked her head off by inches. She kept making sounds for way longer than he’d thought she could.

All sounds stopped once Dean dropped the head, once he let the body slump to the concrete. After the heavy thud of empty flesh hitting ground, it was silent. 

For a long, drawn-out minute, Dean couldn’t even hear his own breath, and he knew he was heaving, huge gasps of air pulled raggedly into his lungs. The fire still burned, Cas must still be in pain, but all noise whited out as Dean fought to re-chain the violence he’d let out. 

He didn’t want to touch Cas with hands that might rip into someone. He needed to put that away.

The crackle of the fire came back, seeping into his awareness. His own breathing reached him next. He still heard nothing from Cas.

Cas, who hung from the pole with his chin on his chest, his eyes closed.

“Cas?”

Holy Fire didn’t burn him. It trapped something from Heaven, but it let something like Dean step over it without harm. Whatever warding that vamp had been talking about was either broken or had never existed.

Cas didn’t move as Dean reached him. He didn’t move as Dean took hold of the angel’s face, ducking to see Cas’ face properly.

“Cas. Come on, man,” Dean said. “Come back to me.”

“Dean?” But that wasn’t Cas. That was Sam, sounding groggy and confused. “Dean, what happened? Wha- Is that Cas? Dean?”

“Get over here and help me,” Dean said, wanting Cas down from the pole and not able to make himself take his hand from Cas’ face. 

Sam listed to port when he stumbled into Dean’s field of view, but he was upright and that was all that counted right then. With Sam there to help, Dean managed to shift his hold so he had Cas’ weight as Sam cut Cas free.

“Dean…” Sam said, and that was all the warning Dean had before Cas tipped forwards, his arms swinging to his sides, and Dean saw the angel’s hands. It looked like every finger was broken, the joints swollen and at least three finger pointing the wrong way.

“Fuck.” Dean felt bile in his throat. “Get him out of the fire.”

Dean held onto Cas as Sam pulled the dead vamp’s headless corpse over the fire, breaking the line. Between them, they lifted Cas, Dean at his shoulders and Sam at his feet, and carried him to a patch of ground free of markings or bodies. 

The hooks pulled jagged lumps from Dean as he moved. As he brought Cas out of the fire the needling pain pulled free, and vanished.

The light was almost gone, now, and in the dim lighting it was slightly easier to pretend Cas wasn’t covered in wounds and blood. There was no way to ignore the fact he was so still.

Sam pressed his fingers to Cas’ throat, held a hand over Cas’ mouth, and looked up at Dean with his lips pressed tightly together.

“He doesn’t need to breathe when he’s got his Grace,” Dean said. 

Sam said nothing.

“Get the lights on. We need to see what we’re dealing with,” Dean said.

It only took a few moments, but it was time Dean spent kneeling in the near-dark, his hand on one of Cas’ forearms. When the lights snapped on, hard white light that would wash colour from anyone, Dean felt his spine stiffen. He’d seen Cas look this still before. 

“No,” Dean said. “No, Cas. Come on.”

Sam dropped down next to Dean, and his hand on Dean’s shoulder was part comfort and part lead-weight. 

“We should get him cleaned up,” Sam said, but Dean had heard that tone before. It was too close to the way Sam had said they should clean up Bobby, when the old hunter had lost his fight with that bullet in the brain. 

“He’s not-” But Dean couldn’t say it. 

“We should get him cleaned up,” Sam said again.

Tearing his gaze from Cas, Dean caught the glisten of liquid in Sam’s eyes. Shit. If they both thought… At least one of them needed to think Cas was… 

“We’ll get him stitched up,” Dean corrected. “He can rest at the Bunker.”

Sam blinked, took a breath, and nodded.

*****************************

If anything, Cas looked even worse once he was cleaned up. With the bedsheets tucked right up to his chin, at least hiding the stitches and bandages, the bruises which washed his skin, he almost looked like he was just asleep. Almost. 

Dean tried fighting through memories soaked in years of blood and conflict to remember if Cas had been this still, this cold, back when he’d simply been healing. Too often, Cas had been knocked about in ways that didn’t map. 

It didn’t count when he’d been hurt as a human. That night, Dean had watched Cas sleep in a motel bed and though about climbing on to the bed next to him, had thought about curling round Cas and carding his hand through the guy’s hair. He hadn’t. But as a human, Cas would have been warmer, in any case.

And Dean had barely been around Cas when his friend had been carrying foreign Grace. Sam said Cas had burned, that it had been like he’d got ‘flu the whole time, whether Cas would admit to being ill or not, but Dean’s memories from then, even when he’d been around, were soaked in red and black and he hadn’t paid anywhere near enough attention.

The Leviathan didn’t count. Cas had been passed out on a floor, looking dead, but he’d been full of those creatures even then, even though in that moment Dean and Bobby hadn’t known it. It might have changed things.

No. Dean had to reach right back to when Cas had passed out during the build-up to the Apocalypse, back when he still had his Grace and had never suffered through being possessed or ripped into a new animal, when he’d not suffered homelessness or hunger or being rejected by every family he’d ever had. 

There were more layers to all the hurt than Dean had ever let himself think about. 

Cas on that bed, after finding his way back from the past, was maybe as close to this as Dean could find. And he couldn’t fucking remember if Cas then had been this still and cold. He’d not even checked for a pulse or for breathing. Why would he? Back then, even unconscious, Cas had seemed unbreakable to him. Eternal. 

“How is he?” Sam asked from the doorway. 

Dean swallowed. Blinked.

“Same. You got anything?”

Coming into the room, Sam pulled up the other chair and sank into it. Dean heard it settle under Sam’s weight. 

“No. I’ve looked in every book I can think of. Nothing on… But there weren’t any wing-marks, right? So, doesn’t that mean…?”

No. There were no wing-marks, and Cas… Well, Dean and Sam had both been around dead bodies, and they tended to get deader over the hours. Cas was unchanging. In this, he was. 

“Yeah. No wing-marks,” Dean said.

He couldn’t remember whether he’d seen the sooty marks of an angel’s wings since the Fall, but the rules around angels were screwed up at the best of times. He could cling to the lack of wing-marks. For now, he could. 

“He’s going to wake up,” Sam said. “He’s going to wake up and ask us why we’re sitting here, staring at him.”

“He’ll ask us if we’re all right,” Dean said. 

But Cas didn’t. He didn’t do anything.

**********************************

Dean woke with a start, his mouth dry and his face squashed against fabric. He’d fallen asleep bent double with his head on the bed. And there was something touching his hair.

A hand. It was a hand.

As Dean processed that, the hand moved, stroking along the short tufts at the back of Dean’s head. No way Sam would do that. It was the kind of socially awkward thing that…

“Cas?”

His voice was almost a croak. 

“Dean.”

Lifting his head was tough, partly because of the throbbing ache in his temple, but mostly because he didn’t want Cas’ hand to stop stroking along his hair, and because he didn’t want to look up and find out he was wrong. He made himself look anyway.

Cas lay on his side, still mostly under the covers, with one arm out so he could reach Dean. He’d dragged the pillow with him and only one eye was visible, looking more black than blue in the dim light. His hair was in as much of a state as it could manage these days, and Dean found himself wondering again when Cas had caught on to the idea of getting his hair cut. 

“Hey,” Dean said. “You doing okay?”

“Yes,” Cas said. “I…” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “No. No, I’m not fine. I… Dean, they were tapping directly into my Grace.”

“I know,” Dean said. Sam had found some form of the spell pretty quickly once they got back to the Bunker, and shown Dean the pages detailing the way that spell must have hooked into Cas’ Grace and set about draining it out. He just hadn’t been able to find a cure. “Looked like crap.”

“Yes.”

Cas’ voice was scratchy, too. Well, it always was, but now it was worse. Dean tried not to think of Cas crying out in pain.

“How long?” Dean asked. “How long were you there?”

How long had Dean not realised there was anything wrong while Cas called out to him.

“Not long,” Cas said, but he looked away. 

Dean let it slide. When Cas didn’t want to tell him something, demanding to know outright rarely worked. He could come back to it when Cas looked better. Right now, it was all too obvious pain still sat under his skin.

“And you’re still hurt?” he asked. “Have you healed at all?”

Cas looked back, and seemed to catch sight of his own hand. He pulled his hand back towards him, the bandages and splints making it move awkwardly, and shifting as he did so until he was propped up on an elbow. Dean had half-forgotten they’d put Cas in that bed wearing nothing but pajama bottoms. The covers slid down to the angel’s stomach, leaving his chest bare. Well, bare except for the injuries and for Dean’s attempts to fix them.

“You’re still all bruised up,” Dean said. “Why aren’t you healing?”

“Not enough Grace to spare,” Cas said. He sounded ashamed, like he was confessing to some failing Dean would turn from. “What I have, it’s fixing my real body.”

And that was another thing: Cas wasn’t really what Dean saw in front of him. There’d been drawings in that same book Sam found, drawings of different angelic forms. Not a one of them was a blue-eyed dude with dark hair and stubble. But he was Cas, no matter how he changed or what Dean didn’t get to see.

“You got enough to heal? Even if it’s slow?” 

A thread of worry kept Dean from smiling properly at seeing Cas awake. That, and guilt. He hadn’t noticed Cas was missing, and even if it had only been a day, it was too much. And yeah, that vamp had talked about another angel, but Sam had found weeks’ worth of reports pointing at powered up vamps, and it had spiked almost two weeks before they’d set out on the case. She’d said Cas was stronger.

“You went to save another angel, didn’t you?” Dean asked, when Cas didn’t answer. He didn’t need an answer to this one, at least. It was something indelible in Cas, this need to try and save his own kind. It shouldn’t keep surprising Dean. “Cas, man, why didn’t you call for help?”

Cas’ shoulders tensed and he looked away again. 

“I’m sure you were busy,” he said.

“You mean you didn’t think I’d care enough to help you,” Dean shot back. 

At that, Cas moved again, pulling away and rolling onto his back, the heels of his hands pressed against his eyes. It was far too human a gesture, and it pulled at his muscles, drawing Dean’s attention back to the signs that he hadn’t been there in time. The tattoo Cas had picked up somewhere stood out against the injuries, somehow free of damage. 

“I’m sorry,” Cas said. 

“Wait. You’re sorry? I let you go off and get yourself plugged into some vamp spell-machine and you’re sorry?”

Dean willed Cas to move his hand, to look back, but Cas didn’t move. His lips pulled into an unhappy line before he spoke again. 

“Yes. I’m sorry. I thought you wouldn’t… But you did. I think. You…” Cas finally slid his hands away and frowned up at the ceiling. “You killed them all,” he said slowly, clearly needing confirmation. 

Getting hold of some clue about what was going on in Cas’ head, Dean settled his hands on the bedding, closer to Cas’ body than before.

“Yeah. Yeah, Cas, I killed them all. To get to you.” He watched Cas still, biting his lip, and pushed on. “I killed them all because I couldn’t stand seeing them hurt you. It bothers me when you get hurt, Cas. It always has. I know I… I know I’m shitty at showing it, and I’ve been far too used to you just healing, but that doesn’t mean it’s okay with me. And it cuts me up to see you like this. And I will do whatever you need me to do so you can heal up. You get that right? Cas? You get that?”

Cas’ lip was almost white where his teeth sank into it. Dean gave him a moment, watched him release his lip with a shuddering breath. He sounded dazed when he spoke.

“You killed them for me,” he said, seemingly testing out the idea. “Because you didn’t want me to be hurt.”

“Yes.” Dean made that as clear and emphatic as he could.

“You smote a whole nest of vampires to save me,” Cas said.

And Dean didn’t even bother to correct his wording. If it made more sense to Cas to think of it as smiting, then let him at it. Besides, it sounded purer than what Dean had really done, which was rip them to pieces using all the taint of Hell and Purgatory and the Mark to power him. At least it had been for something good. Something which really was pure.

“Yeah. And I’d do it again. I will do it again, if you ever get yourself in that sort of mess. But, Cas, you listen to me and you listen good. I am done with leaving you to your own devices, all right? God, man, if you really thought I’d not be there… I mean, I get it. I do. I’ve been a shitty friend. But that’s changing. Starting now.”

“Starting now,” Cas said, but he didn’t sound to be entirely taking on board what Dean was saying. He still stared up at the ceiling, a glazed looked of something like wonder on his face. “You smote them all for me,” he said again. 

And Dean thought about that hand stroking over his hair, even with broken, bandaged fingers, about how he’d wanted to do that for Cas back in Rexford. And he didn’t bother with more words. Rising from the chair, he checked for Cas’ reaction as he slid onto the bed. 

“This okay?” he asked, as he pulled a spare pillow under his head and lay facing the angel. “Can I…? Will you be okay with me…?”

“I’m always okay with you, Dean,” Cas said, and it shouldn’t have cut, but it did. 

There were times Cas really shouldn’t have been okay with Dean, but they could work on that, too, later.

Just for now, Dean brought his hand, which had ripped the throat right out of a vamp, up to the side of Cas’ face, and stroked his finger down Cas’ cheek. He’s get to the hair. 

“You focus on healing,” he told the angel, “and when you’re better, we’re gonna sit down, the three of us, and make sure we’re all on the same page, here.”

“What page?” Cas asked, and Dean couldn’t let that note of worry stand. Not now. 

“The page that says you call us, whenever you need us. The page that says you come to us if you need us. Or, Hell, the page that says you stay here, so we know when you need us. Need me. That page.”

“And if I need you to smite another room full of monsters?” Cas asked, but the note of worry had changed to something softer, and if killing a whole bunch of vamps was the equivalent of a dozen red roses to Cas, then so be it. Not like Dean had ever exactly been good at normal.

“Then consider them smited. Smote,” Dean said, and found it easy to curl his hand around the other side of Cas’ face and turn his head to face Dean. His fingers finally found there way into Cas’ hair. It was soft. “I’ll kill my way to you whenever you need. Bottom line? I’m not losing you.”

And Cas finally looked like he believed it.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't usually have any of the boys lay in to women like this, but this lead vamp just seemed right as a woman with blonde plaits. I think I may have slightly had Harmony from Buffy in mind, but up until this point in my vamp's vamp career, she's been rather more successful than Harmony ever was. 
> 
> And I seem unable to stay away from Dean and Cas having meaningful conversations on and around beds. I am not sure I will ever tire of it. 
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you think.


End file.
